Sunday mornings in a little Middle Tennessee farming town, just past the second bridge, black families gathered to praise the Lord. Not Willie Hawkins and his wife. They stayed home and listened to a preacher on the radio.
Willie was of the opinion that too many black people in one place could be dangerous if some redneck got it in his head to cause them harm. Some uneducated and useless human being, taking advantage of men, women and even children, just because the Almighty and his angel helpers decided to paint them with a different hue.
They had shot up black churches before. Willie told me, “They’s a whole messa’ crazy peoples out there. God help us.”
In town, they called him Willie and her Willie’s Wife. I never did catch her first name. They were first cousins. Back in the ’50s and out in the country, that kind of thing didn’t matter that much.
Just the two of them lived in a small house, above Cathy’s Creek, across the road from the Vaughn family. They were within throwing distance of the town’s only school – first through 12th grades, all under one roof.